


23rd Batch

by Cyberrat



Series: Fic Batches [23]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Kingsman (Movies), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Cuckolding, Dom/sub, Feminization, Food Kink, Humiliation, M/M, Medical Kink, Objectification, Rape, Skin Hunger, Slut Shaming, Touch-Starved, Voyeurism, Wire Play, sph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-25 13:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20026378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberrat/pseuds/Cyberrat
Summary: 23rd Batch of my fics





	1. Akande/Lúcio/Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> Akande/Lúcio/Reaper – continuation B1F5 – consensual feminization; cuckolding; slut shaming; voyeurism – Akande invites a business partner that Lúcio is very familiar with.

There is a pause in Lúcio’s step when he pushes his way into the study and sees Gabriel sitting in the other armchair in front of the fireplace.

He has known that there would be a business partner of Akande’s visiting today, of course, but Akande has had him in the dark as to who it would be.

Lúcio’s eyes, made up with a nice little bit of make up, widen as he stares at Gabriel sitting there. Akande can see every little reaction on his young wife’s face. The last time – the last few times – that Lúcio had seen Gabriel, he’s spent most of his time on his knees, trying and failing to get throat fucked by Reyes’ fat cock while his husband was out of town securing them even more wealth.

Akande knows about it, of course; he has watched every single outing.

Has even let Gabriel know when he expected to be out so he could take care of his slutty little wife for him.

Seeing his favorite stud next to his husband which he also dearly loved seems to short circuit something in Lúcio’s brain.

He stands there, staring, the silver tray in his hands starting to precariously tilt towards the ground.

“Honey,” Akande says sharply but with a smile to snap him out of it. Lúcio physically jerks as Gabriel turns to throw a calm, seemingly uninterested gaze towards Lúcio in his little cute dress.

The game is only fun when everybody pretends that nothing is amiss. Akande has always liked that Gabriel seems to just naturally know how to play.

“Mrs. Ogundimu,” Gabriel says smoothly, but does not make any move to stand up and properly greet Lúcio. That seems to finally snap the little slut out of it and his smile comes back, if a little shaky and unsure.

“Mr. Reyes! So glad you are here…” He comes closer. He is not wearing any shoes, and his naked feet look vulnerable and borderline obscene on Akande’s expensive carpets as he gingerly carries the tray of wine over to them.

Gabriel stretches out his long legs at the last second, nearly making Lúcio trip over them as he resumes the conversation he’s had with Akande when Lúcio came in.

Akande can feel an excited thrill at Gabriel’s casual dismissal of his wife. He knows for a fact that just a couple days earlier this exact same man has had Lúcio bend over the back of the couch and fucked his hole until it made sloppy, embarrassing squelching noises, promising him over and over that he loves him so much; and now he doesn’t even answer Lúcio’s doe-eyed stare.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Akande says gently as Lúcio leans down to put the tray on the little desk between them.

Lúcio turns his head and smiles so wide at Akande that his eyes do a weird little squint that Akande adores. For a second everything is just very sweet and… domestic, and then the bubble bursts as Lúcio jerks in surprise when Gabriel turns to brace himself on one armrest and casually stuffs his other hand beneath Lúcio’s skirt, palming his ass.

“I could use a few snacks,” Gabriel croons. Akande can see when Lúcio jumps once more as Gabriel ostensibly squeezes the cheek he has palmed possessively.

Gabriel is a very intelligent man with impeccable manners… Akande has been accompanied by him to various events throughout his career, and seeing him now practically revert to a drunk boozehound, hitting on his wife in front of his eyes is… very exciting. Very good and exciting.

Akande smiles at Lúcio’s lost look that he throws his way and nods at him encouragingly.

Lúcio swallows and stands, flattening his skirt in front with slightly shaking hands while not trying to dislodge the hand groping him.

“I… ah… yes. Of course. I will be right back.”

Akande does not say anything, of course. He pours himself some of the wine and leans back, sipping and enjoying the show as Lúcio eventually comes back with a tray full of crackers which Gabriel ignores in favor of grabbing Lúcio’s hips and pulling him to sit on his lap.

Lúcio’s eyes go wide and immediately flinch over towards Akande. He looks absolutely mortified and shocked into indecision. He’s never been toyed with by another man while his husband is _right there_.

Akande slowly lifts one corner of his mouth. He nods at him imperceptibly, but either Lúcio doesn’t see it or doesn’t believe it. Gabriel curls one arm around his middle and slowly starts dragging the hand of the other up Lúcio’s thigh until it can push the skirt up with it and Lúcio suddenly tries to dissuade his hands, his mouth open in a shocked little ‘o’.

“I… M-Mister Reyes,” he whispers. He sounds so dismayed; like he hasn’t been suckling Reyes’ dick like a little babe for well over half a year. Like Reyes isn’t the first he begs to come and fill his belly when Akande is going out on a business trip.

Like he hasn’t let Reyes fuck him in their big, luxurious bed while stuffing Lúcio’s face into Akande’s pillow so he’ll smell him the whole time while getting fucked from behind like a bitch.

“What’s that now?” Gabriel croons right against Lúcio’s ear after hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Since when are you struggling, baby? Last time I saw you you couldn’t spread your legs wide enough and now you’re holding out on me?”

Lúcio sounds like he is about to hyperventilate. He stares over at Akande in abject horror while Akande is leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, outstretched finger slowly tracing the shape of his full lips as he watches his wife getting molested right in front of him.

“I… I mean,” Lúcio stutters, voice trembling. Gabriel apparently has had enough with his struggling and grabs Lúcio’s arms, bending them behind his back so he can hold both of his wrists in one hand while the other finally flips his skirt up and reveals how naked he is underneath.

“Oh would you look at that… little whore is all ready for dick. There you go. Didn’t expect otherwise from you. Have you had cock today?” Gabriel is crooning at him with a smooth, hypnotic voice. He reaches beneath Lúcio’s perky ass and starts to undo the fly of his pants, reaching in to awkwardly drag his cock out into the open while he has a sweet little thing squirming on his lap.

Lúcio has finally stopped gaping at Akande and seems to go with the program, though he is a lot shier and soft-spoken than he would be if he were alone with his stud with his husband watching over the cameras.

“No,” he whispers. 

Gabriel hums thoughtfully. Akande can’t quite see what he is doing, but he can see his arm move and then Lúcio is crying out softly and arching his back. Gabriel looks very satisfied.

“You’re so wet, though… little whore… does your husband not give it to you often enough? Need to play with toys to tide you over?”

Lúcio is pressing one hand over his mouth, eyes clenched shut tightly so he doesn’t have to look at Akande as he slowly nods.

Akande huffs a soft laugh and gently sets down his glass so he can start to open his own pants as well while he watches Gabriel manhandle his wife until he has her speared on his cock.

“Such a shame that he’s not giving it to you the way you need,” Gabriel murmurs, all cool and collected like Lúcio’s silky insides aren’t clinging to his cock nice and warm. “But I suppose it is difficult with a whore of a wife like you…”

Lúcio whimpers and curls a hand around his lovely slender cock.

It’s good to change things up every once in a while. Akande wouldn’t have thought he’d enjoy being a witness like this but Gabriel always does his jobs with the utmost enthusiasm.


	2. Reaper/Soldier76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier76/Reaper – old men; greedy Jack; sniffing; no actual sexy times just a lot of touch starvation – Jack takes what he wants of Gabriel.

Jack likes to pretend like he is above the whole situation, and too old to show any real emotion, but Gabriel can see him just sitting and _watching_ out of the corner of his eyes. 

Being calm and collected might be how Jack likes to show himself to the rest of the world; especially his new little group of friends consisting mostly out of excitable young people, but it is not who Jack truly _is_.

At least not in Gabriel’s experience.

The memories of their time together might be old (very old, even… he is, quite frankly, astonished that both of them are still alive), but he remembers how clingy Jack had been. All but affection starved.

Gabriel wonders what Jack sees now when he looks at him; with the large scar bisecting his chest and belly, and the implants along his spine helping him keep a hold on the nanites. They’re both no longer young and beautiful. Maybe it is this that keeps Jack from coming closer, even though Gabriel has made it a point to slip into his rooms after everyone else has gone to bed.

He feels like he’s made his intention very clear… but maybe he’s been too fast? Jack has become a paranoid old piece of shit. He probably thinks this is all a ploy to get him to-

Gabriel had not realized how Jack had suddenly stood up from his place on the other side of the room, but suddenly his hands are framing Gabriel’s cheeks. There’s the first violent impulse to hurt him, but Gabriel can tamp it down and all that remains is a gust of smoke that he gasps out and Jack all but inhales because he is leaning down and right in Gabriel’s face,

And then he is kissing Gabriel.

It is almost painful, but it is exactly how Gabriel remembered Jack kissing him when they were young men and the other had started to realize that it is okay to touch and take. Gabriel is frowning deeply, trying to follow the quick press and drag of Jack’s lips, but Jack grunts like it is an inconvenience and presses even closer, tilting Gabriel’s head up to dominate him, and after a moment of instinctual indignance, Gabriel relaxes and lets him do.

Jack is not the most skilled kisser. Gabriel’s belly does a slow, needy flip as he thinks he must not have many partners since they broke up a million years ago. He kind of… wants that. That he should be Jack’s first and last. That he should be the one to eventually gentle him down and properly show him how to do all of it.

Jack has his eyes clenched shut but Gabriel knows that even open he would have trouble seeing anything much. When he reaches up to carefully stroke the side of his face, he can feel the little round port on his temple where his visor will click in.

Eventually, when Gabriel’s head starts spinning from lack of oxygen and he has to focus on keeping his Nanites in check so they wouldn’t spiral outwards in an immediate defense mechanism, Jack pulls back.

They’re both breathing deep and fast. Gabriel’s mouth feels bruised from the harsh kisses, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Not now. He can still teach Jack later.

Jack’s face makes weird contortions; he almost looks angry for a moment, but then he is urging Gabriel up with shaking hands and pushing him bossily towards the bed. Gabriel is chuckling, probably sounding like he’s so very collected and calm when he is anything but. His heart his racing and making him almost nauseous as he helps Jack’s violently shaking hands to peel him out of his clothes.

He could simply dissipate into smoke and reappear again, but he does not trust himself to do it properly; not when he is this nervous.

He feels close to crying.

Jack looks close, too. His mouth trembles when Gabriel is naked, his clammy hands dragging across his chest.

“I can’t see you,” he rasps, and despite his deep gravelly voice, he sounds as helpless as a little boy. Gabriel takes a deep breath – and does not say anything to that.

Jack pushes him, and Gabriel bounces on the bed. He should not let Jack bully him around like this; he should push back and force him to calm down and be more gentle, but the truth is that he doesn’t want gentle; not right now. He wants Jack on the verge of ugly crying grabbing and kneading at him and making sure that Gabriel is, in fact, real.

That he is here after all. After all these years.

The arousal that comes with it is almost more of an afterthought. Something dumb primal that his body is reacting upon the touch of his long-lost lover.

His mouth instantly waters when he sees Jack’s cock; fat and ruddy red. It somehow looks older, too; more roughly hewn, though he could not put his finger on why. Maybe it is the grey, wild pubes or the almost violently fat vein at the side.

He wants to reach for it and play with it. He wants to get his mouth on Jack’s cock and drool all over it, but whenever he so much as moves a muscle, Jack puts him back in his place, so he stays where he is and lifts his arms up over his head and closes his eyes while Jack’s fingers are tracing the prominent scar down his middle.

They don’t linger much; simply start trailing elsewhere. At some point, Jack lowers his head and his nose finds with surprising accuracy Gabriel’s armpit. He chokes on his own spit at the unexpected sensation of Jack burying his nose in the hair there and inhaling deeply.

“Oh Jackie,” Gabriel finally sighs. He cautiously lowers his other arm and starts to slowly pet over the receding white hair. Jack is bearing down on him, though a little more gentle than before. he is still inhaling deeply, his hips curving down and gently fucking his cock against the inside of Gabriel’s thick thigh. The sensation of the little moisture slicking against his skin is… very distracting.

When Jack shifts and his cock slips farther up, nestling just behind Gabriel’s heavy balls into the warm little nook there, his breath hitches. He wonders if Jack would want to take him like this in his desperation for closeness; without any lube or preparation. Gabriel thinks he would let him. He almost asks him to, even.

But Jack does not make any more moves; just gently shimmies his hips a little and fucks that humid little spot while he is sniffing Gabriel’s armpit and occasionally groans like he is hurt.

Gabriel sighs deeply, feeling the low-key arousal coursing through his body and just coasting on it as long as there is no immediacy to act upon it.

“Oh Jackie,” he croons again, claws appearing on his fingers with which he gently cards through Jack’s thin hair and scratches his scalp.

“My Jack.”


	3. Reinhardt/McCree/Hanzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt/McCree/Hanzo – continuation of B21F5 – RAPE, MINDBREAK, blow jobs, coercion – Reinhardt is willing to let McCree go... under one condition.

“The way I see it, this is all very easily resolved,” Reinhardt says after a few Talon agents have stormed the room, guns drawn and pointed all around the Overwatch agents. It is not like it would keep Agent Tracer from doing something, but it is at least a beginning.

It is more of an audience.

The thought makes his cock flex and McCree gurgles like he hasn’t noticed the muzzle of the gun pressed to his temple. 

“You, Agent Shimada… you play along, and if I am satisfied, I will give my little pet here back into your care. I won’t even charge you for the work I have done on him. He’s a lot better behaved now, you see. None of that smoking and drinking and loud mouthedness. Just… a nice little cocksleeve.”

He reaches around McCree, hand splayed on his thigh possessively while he stares at Hanzo, gauging his reaction.

The Agent still has the arrow nocked and directed to Reinhardt’s forehead, but he can see that there is no real resolve in his posture. While the rest of his team cry out in self-righteous indignation at the _gall_ Reinhardt possesses, Hanzo is quiet and thoughtful.

“You’re not seriously thinking about making a deal with him, buddy?” Lúcio says, voice cracking about two times. His young face is slack and ashen looking. Reinhardt watches him with interest. He’d also be a good candidate in his opinion. He’s very cute. Could learn a lot.

Hmm.

“What is your answer, Agent?” Reinhardt asks then, focusing back on Shimada’s face and the muscle that is twitching in his cheek.

Hanzo’s eyes twitch slightly as if he wants to turn around and look at his teammates standing behind him, but he keeps steadfast. He licks his lips slowly, eyes trained on McCree and the obscene bulge of his belly.

“What do you mean by ‘play along’?” he asks, voice a little scratchy. McCree’s cock does a cute little flex; a Pavlovian response to hearing his partner’s voice. Reinhardt can feel the movement against the backs of his fingers where he’s curled them around his thigh.

How sweet. How interesting. He’s thought he’d broken him down thoroughly enough to have him not remember anything anymore but the feel of cock stretching him open and reaming him. Interesting. Intriguing.

“He remembers you,” Reinhardt murmurs aloud, thoughtful. Shimada winces as if the information hurts him.

“I want you to come here and play with him,” he says after a few beats of silence, thinking about McCree’s reaction.

Finally, Shimada lowers his bow under the squawking protest of his friends.

“Play… with him.”

“Make him say your name… and you may go. With him.”

Shimada’s brow twitches. He stares at Reinhardt, then at McCree; then at the hard line of McCree’s cock and the bloody mess of his hole stretched so wide on Reinhardt’s impossibly big cock.

“Untie his hands,” he says, voice rough and sending shivers down Reinhardt’s spine. He grins at the agent and makes a show out of putting away the gun to have both hands free and untie McCree’s wrists.

At the same time, Shimada puts away his arrow and smoothly collapses his bow.

.o.

“God,” Shimada breathes when he has gotten close and gone into a squat between both Reinhardt’s and McCree’s splayed thighs. His hands are on his partner’s knees, mindlessly swiping his thumbs along the sensitive insides.

McCree doesn’t react much. Reinhardt grabs his hair and pushes his head forward to make him look at Hanzo while Hanzo in turn is just staring at the ruin of McCree’s aching hole.

“It will take a while until he’ll even feel you anymore,” Reinhardt says by way of a non-apology. He can see how the flush on Shimada’s cheeks darkens. He does not look like he completely minds.

He looks… fascinated. Reinhardt watches him intently and with no small amount of satisfaction. He feels like if Talon had gotten their hands on Shimada before his brother and Overwatch, they would have had a kindred spirit in the archer. He looks like he is about to drool from watching his partner’s ruination – but only for a moment before shame kicks in and he clears his throat.

“Jesse,” he says softly, voice shot through. McCree’s cock twitches again. It seems more intelligent than its master at this point; reacting like a little puppy while McCree just blankly stares.

Shimada slowly curls his hand around it. Reinhardt knows that it is feverishly hot to the touch; that it feels unnatural and sick. His grin slowly widens as he watches the way Shimada’s mouth falls open. Intrigued. Gently squeezing the fat, ruddy dick in his grip. He looks like he, too, wants to tease it until it is seconds from exploding and then just pull away.

The cries of his teammates have faded into the background. They are still making a ruckus, but with both Agent Shimada and Agent McCree in Reinhardt’s immediate proximity, they can do little more than stand there and watch in horror as Shimada goes along with the game, pretending like he is not immensely turned on by all of it.

He opens his mouth wide and points McCree’s cock at his face. A moment later he has popped the tip between his greedy lips and McCree sobs because at this point everything done to his painfully hard cock registers as pain.

Shimada starts sucking, tongue gently cushioning the fat tip, and McCree starts to fuss around like a babe, squirming and crying out more, immediate tears brimming in his dark, brown eyes.

Reinhardt is fascinated just how quickly Shimada has been able to tease some reactions out of his pet. Maybe McCree hasn’t been as mind broken as he had thought. Maybe Reinhardt needed to re-evaluate the way he trained his toys… this would not do. This is way too easy.

But a deal is a deal, and Reinhardt might be one of the ‘bad guys’, but he does has his honor as well.

He grunts in annoyance when Shimada pops McCree’s cock back out of his suckling, greedy mouth and instead traces his tongue in lewd circles around the brick red tip.

McCree is howling and sobbing like a little boy, his freed hands grabbing clumsily for Shimada’s head, thick fingers digging into his hair. It looks like he wants to push him away, but either he is too weak for it and Shimada is stubbornly staying where he is, or McCree can’t make up his mind after all.

Shimada sucks McCree’s cock back in and this time he makes himself go down deep, and Reinhardt barks a laugh. Just common whores, all of them!

While McCree cries and sobs, Reinhardt marvels at how easily Shimada takes the fat cock of his partner; how he sucks him like two-dollar-whore, happily making himself gag and gurgle on the fever hot tip, fingers curling around McCree’s blood hot balls and gingerly squeezing them.

McCree cries out like a wounded animal. It only occurs to Reinhardt that he might be coming because Shimada is swallowing, flushing, bulging throat working to drink down the hot load while McCree is all but ripping at his hair and sobbing something out again and again.

It takes all of them a while to realize that McCree is slurring Shimada’s name.

When Shimada pops off, a line of cum connecting him to McCree’s cock, he looks stupidly smug.

Reinhardt is sure the expression will be wiped off of Shimada’s face when he turns and sees the faces of his comrades.

At least a small consolation for the loss of his toy.


	4. Aziraphale/Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley/Aziraphale – food play; stuffing – Crowley stuffs Aziraphale with different kind of vegetables????

“That… that is- _C-Crowley_! That is an absolute waste of perfectly good food!”

Aziraphale’s voice is rapidly climbing up the closer Crowley comes with the cucumber in his hand. There is a tray of other vegetables next to the bed, half-hidden from Aziraphale’s gaze by a cloth that has been flipped over but the sight of what he _can_ see has the angel quite troubled.

Quite troubled indeed.

Yet, as _troubled_ as he is and as _vehemently_ as he protests – he does not close his chubby thighs up.

Instead, he is lying on his back, the tips of his wings curled anxiously, and his fingers weaved together atop his fatty belly which looks distractingly soft beneath them. Crowley’s wide grin slides somewhat off his face as he keeps staring, one hand on Aziraphale’s knee, the other up in the air holding the cucumber like a sword.

Aziraphale glances from the vegetable to Crowley. He repeats this a few times, cheeks slowly going darker.

“You…” he clears his throat and looks up somewhere. “You can’t,” he says but his voice has dropped a little and is raspy, almost crooning. Purring.

“Oh you want it,” Crowley says slowly, drawing himself away from the sight of Aziraphale’s distracting curves. “Oh you… you _want_ it! You… _naughty _angel!”

His mouth his hanging open slightly. He gently whacks the cucumber against the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh who bites his lower lip and reaches down, cupping a hand across his cock so Crowley wouldn’t see how the fat, sturdy dick is rapidly filling up.

“N-Nonsense. I wouldn’t… I would never enjoy something so… so _depraved_.” He licks his lips nervously, blue eyes fixed on the cucumber resting against his thighs. When Crowley narrows his eyes and lets the vegetable slide a little farther down, Aziraphale’s legs spread wide in invitation.

Crowley grins close lipped, his tongue snaking out without him able to stop it and fluttering in the air before his nose in clear self-satisfaction.

Aziraphale huffs and turns his head away.

“This is horrible… a… a waste of…”

“Perfectly good food… yes… you’ve already mentioned, angel,” Crowley interrupts, sounding gentle and distracted as he has now focused his attention to the dark space between Aziraphale’s cheeks.

The first push has Aziraphale squeaking and inhaling sharply, the flush on his round cheeks darkening.

“It’s.. it’s _cold_!” he says sharply but he does not seem angry or put out by it.

His disturbingly white and perfect teeth dig into his bottom lip. As Aziraphale watches with fascination, the angel bears down on the cucumber, making it slip deeper inside his warm intestines.

He doesn’t… have to do much, even. He doesn’t have to hold Aziraphale down, he doesn’t have to talk him into this or through this… he simply does all the work himself and looks like he is thoroughly enjoying himself.

His fingers, formerly curled protectively over his crotch in a bid to shield how turned on he is, are now curled around the sturdy shaft of his cock, slowly squeezing and pulling it as his ass works to take more of the cool vegetable.

“You… I can’t believe this,” Crowley mutters, his own ears starting to get warm and red with a flush as he ducks his head some and begins to move the cucumber; harder than he wanted to before, since Aziraphale so very obviously _enjoys_ this whole thing.

Oh, you wait. Just you _wait_.

.o.

Crowley’s had Aziraphale moaning on the cucumber like a common whore within just a few minutes, but at the sight of the _eggplant_ he suddenly balks.

_That won’t do, Crowley!_ and _It is too wide, Crowley!_ and _The_ vegetables, _Crowley, the_ vegetables_!!!_ like he couldn’t bear scarring the poor things any more; but he’s whining all of that through the cage of his fingers, hands pressed to his shocked mouth, eyes wide and going even wider as he watches the eggplant in Crowley’s hand descent to between his thighs.

His hole is wet and open. It’s been a cute peach pink once upon a time but after getting reamed by a cucumber it has flushed an intense deep red that looks as tasty as a ripe apple to Crowley. He is licking his lips, ducking low to the bed, one hand curled claw like around Aziraphale’s thigh and making the fat dimple gently as he starts to mercilessly press the eggplant to his hole.

It needs determination and the willingness not to give a damn about the angel’s whining and crying, but eventually he has pushed the smooth vegetable in as far as he can without losing hold of its end.

“You know… it would be quite funny if it were to just slip into you, wouldn’t it?” he says, and Aziraphale is very decisive in the ‘no!’ he hisses at him. Crowley glances up, seeing the troubled crink between Aziraphale’s brows, and shrugs.

“Was just a suggestion,” he murmurs.

Aziraphale had been loud getting fucked by a cucumber, but the eggplant is a whole different animal. He is making weird high-pitched sounds, hands slammed to the bed next to his hips, grabbing the sheets for dear life as his legs try to clamp down around Aziraphale’s ears. He has to shoulder them apart and even use his leathery wings to keep them pinned down as he uses his arm to press against Aziraphale’s belly and hold him right where he needs him.

Aziraphale doesn’t appreciate _that _as well, because now he is babbling nonsense and hiccuping every now and then; something about Crowley putting even more pressure on the immense filling inside his guts.

His rim is stretched wide, and something about the contrast between his brick red rim and the purple-black of the shiny eggplant is absolutely mesmerizing. Crowley fucks him slowly, wings keeping him pinned just as much as the arm that he keeps right where it is just out of spite and because he loves hearing Aziraphale lose his composure.

When he finally pulls it out, it is with a weird suction sound. Aziraphale whimpers, high and broken, hands pressed against his hot, humiliated face. His cock has been smearing against Crowley’s forearm.

“The… the waste…” he hiccups weakly and Crowley, putting the eggplant away and tugging the tray closer for the next morsel hums thoughtfully.

“Could make a salad out of them later?”

“Crowley!”

He sounds pissed but when Crowley looks up, his eyes are fixed with a horrified expression on the cherry tomato he is currently holding in his hand.

“No! Absolutely… absolutely _not!_”

Crowley watches him as he tries to get himself back together and has to realize that he is pinned and not stronger than the demon, no matter how scrawny Crowley might look.

“That is absolutely out of the question! That… that is…” He pauses for a moment, squinting at the tomato that Crowley is still holding, having not uttered a word for a while now. “Aren’t those… aren’t those considered fruit?”

Crowley blinks at him slowly.

“Look. I can stuff you with them and we could see how nice it is if you bear down and make them _pop_… or we can do whatever it is you are just… doing there.”

He gestures with the tomato at Aziraphale’s everything. Aziraphale’s cheeks are as red and as round as the tomatoes. It is quite adorable, to be honest. Crowley can’t get enough of the sight.

“Make them… make them pop,” he whispers faintly.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale whimpers.


	5. Sigma/McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigma/McCree – bondage/suspension bondage; Dom/sub – Jesse grounds Sigma.

There is a moment while Jesse is checking over the bindings in which he can see out of the corner of his eyes how Sigma’s tense, broad shoulders suddenly loosen. It’s like a switch has been pressed, the energy coming off of the man a wholly different quality than it had been a second before.

The toes of his feet are gently wriggling. He looks like he is having a marvellous time, and Jesse pauses with his fingers gently slipped beneath a strap, checking whether it is just the perfect tightness, before leaving it be.

He rolls his cigar slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other. It is not lit, but he needs something to work on with his lips and tongue.

“Hey grandpa,” he says and at the first sound of his voice, Sigma jumps in his bindings as if he has forgotten Jesse even is there. He probably has. Jesse rounds the desk Sigma is on and looks down at him. Sigma looks back with wide blue eyes, brows drawn up in slightly dismayed shock at seeing Jesse before the switch is flipped again and McCree can see the change in his eyes.

They seem to get a bit darker, somehow; the light steel blue dipping into something else while Sigma blinks profusely as if to get something out of his vision. He shakes his head.

“I… have become distracted,” he admits softly.

“Happens to the best of us,” Jesse murmurs, hand reaching out to let his fingers gently card through the fluff of Sigma’s slowly growing hair. Talon has kept him neatly shaven during his imprisonment so their machines would connect and the electric impulses flow better, but with Overwatch, Siebren does not have to be coerced in the same way.

He is here voluntarily. In the organization in general and in Jesse’s care right now in particular.

“Alright. So you’re back with me?”

Sigma slowly wriggles, trying to move himself and seemingly surprised when he realizes that he can’t. He swallows hard and looks up at Jesse once more. 

He’s a grown man – a grandpa, as Jesse likes to remind him – but there is something just fundamentally endearing about him; how his hard face becomes soft and guileless, eyes big, cheeks flushing delicately.

An utterly submissive look that has Jesse breathing deeply as he keeps petting over Sigma’s head, unashamed of the fat bulge lifting the front of his shorts, a slip of the skin showing through the slit in the front.

“You ready, then?” he murmurs and steps a little closer so Sigma can nuzzle into his crotch and softly mouth at the bit of skin he can reach. Sigma’s breath is warm, puffing through the opening, his big nose trying to nuzzle into Jesse’s pubes.

It has been a nice thing to find out; that Siebren is a very olfactory person to go along with the large beak he’s got going. Certainly nice for Jesse who foregoes showers more often than not.

He stands there, idly suckling on an unlit cigar, hand on Sigma’s bald head and letting him sniff and nuzzle to his heart’s content while being trussed up nicely in Jesse’s harness.

He feels like a king in that moment, for sure.

“Yes,” Sigma finally murmurs, and Jesse pats his head gently, gives both of them just a couple seconds more, then steps away. Sigma looks dazed and a bit cross-eyed, but in a different way to his zoning-out moments.

When Jesse moves around him, his gaze immediately sharpens again and he follows him as far as possible with his eyes.

Jesse steps towards one of the walls where the rope is loosely wrapped around a peg there.

“And up you go,” he says, the last word grunted as he puts his arms to work, hoisting the big man up in his harness.

Sigma makes a soft sound of surprise, body jerking once which gets him to gently sway.

Jesse only lifts him a couple inches before he curls the rope securely around the peg, one eye on Sigma the whole time, but after the initial shock he has become very quiet and tranquil, just lying in his harness and looking around with a slightly slack expression on his face.

When he comes over, frowning, leaning down to focus more on Sigma’s face, he realizes that he hasn’t zoned out on him again but is instead just… enjoying the sensation. He’s gotten rope drunk in just a few heart beats of being suspended in Jesse’s harness, and Jesse can feel himself falling a bit for the grandpa because he is just so… earnest. Easy.

Going down for him quickly and without a fuss.

There is a part of him that is getting insanely jealous just from the thought of a Dom who has no idea what a sweet boy he has on his hands just slapping the big man around. He wants to keep him.

He grabs the table beneath him and rolls it to the side. Sigma makes a soft noise of shock when there is a lot more void beneath him than before. He twitches, and starts swinging again.

Jesse watches him and lets him move about restlessly for a while until Sigma has tired himself out and is just hanging there once more.

“Easy, grandpa,” he murmurs and reaches out to steady him. “No need to struggle, hm? The only one that can make you fall right now is me… and I won’t do that to you.”

Siebren shudders. His toes flex nervously; Jesse has bound his ankles up at the knees to have Sigma’s long legs out of the way and better access to that delightfully tight little ass he has.

For a moment it looks like he wants to argue with Jesse about the gravity involved in this whole situation, but he remains silent and finally relaxes into his bindings.

Slipping into him is easy after the long preparation; Jesse patiently spreading him out on his thick fingers and listening to Sigma’s gasps and low groans… but the sounds Sigma makes as Jesse’s fat cock glides into him are… something else.

He’s spread him wide until his rim has been buttery soft, but his fingers still can’t be compared to his cock, it seems. The girth and heft of it settling in Sigma’s abdomen and making him feel full and strangely grounded.

The old man makes a choked off little sound that goes straight to McCree’s balls after zinging down his spine, and Jesse only has to gently clasp his hip to keep him right where he wants him to be.

Suspended in his harness and helpless to fight the incredible feeling of fullness that comes with taking McCree’s fat dick.

There’s a mirror to the side which Jesse idly watches as he slowly, slowly, _oh so slowly_ starts to fuck Sigma. A snail pace rhythm of a dicking that stimulates the old man’s prostate just enough to have his cock dribbling out a long string of precum to the floor.

It’s too slow of a fucking even for Jesse’s taste, but it thoroughly distracts Sigma from anything but the intense stretch of his rim and the warm weight in his belly, so McCree makes himself keep at it; keep slow, keep steady, keep giving Sigma something to hold on to so he doesn’t lose himself again.

Keep grounding him.


	6. Angelo/Hanzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo/Hanzo – continuation of a fic that has somehow gotten deleted. The fic is being posted below, and the actual fill is posted below that (beginning at the ---) – concept Mercy (Angelo); sph, humiliation, medical play, micro dick Hanzo (if you have a problem with small dicked men please do not read...) – Hanzo and his medical check-up.

Angelo beams at Mr. Shimada, eagerly hooking a foot into his stool and tugging it over so he can sit by the older man. He feels like it is easier to talk to patients as skittish as Mr. Shimada when not holed up behind his desk, though Mr. Shimada’s stony expression doesn’t look like he appreciates the effort.

“I am so glad I could finally get you to come to my office,” he says, leaning forward with elbows on his thighs. He is a big man and usually tries to make himself smaller for the sake of his patients.

Mr. Shimada stares at him practically down his crooked nose and only answers after a too long beat of silence: “I have been threatened to be taken off the roster if I do not comply with your demands.”

Angelo blinks at him, then lifts a hand, rubbing two fingers thoughtfully against the carefully groomed stripe of his goatee.

“While I do not condone threats, I do have to admit that I am quite happy about the result this time.”

He smiles at Mr. Shimada, and Mr. Shimada flinches back just a bit, looking almost dumbfounded for a second before schooling his features back into his stony expression.

“I am healthy. I have no complaints or ailments.”

Angelo nods along, smiling placatingly as he stretches to retrieve his clipboard from his desk.

“I know, I know. This is simply a routine check-up so I can update your folder. I do not anticipate to find anything troublesome, you do not need to be afraid-”

He can see Hanzo’s hackles rising immediately, his already broad shoulders squaring a bit more, wide mouth pressed into a thin, fierce scowl.

“I am not afraid. Of anything.”

Angelo blinks at him slowly, then uncaps his pen, nodding awkwardly. “OOookay. Yes. No problem. Please excuse my clumsy wording…”

He trails off, sees Mr. Shimada deflate a bit again, and clears his throat. “How about we just start with the questionnaire so we’ll get this whole thing over with.”

Mr. Shimada nods once, regally. “Please.”

.o.

“When was the last time you ejaculated?”

Hanzo opens his mouth, then the question registers and he closes it with an undignified snap, staring at the good Doctor. Angelo is looking down at the clipboard he’s balancing on one knee, pen poised above an empty line near the bottom, waiting for Hanzo to answer like he’s done the past five minutes.

“What?” Hanzo hisses. He can feel immediate heat shoot into his cheeks, which makes him even more flustered.

Angelo looks up at that and blinks at him, then looks down at the clipboard and repeats the question a bit slower: “When was the last time you ejaculated?”

Hanzo can feel his chest burning with embarrassment, arms coming up in a defensive cross.

“I don’t know why you would need to know-”

“It is just one of the standard questions, Mr. Shimada. The faster you answer, the faster I can let you go. You can be assured that everything we discuss here will be handled with the utmost discretion.”

Hanzo grinds his teeth and shifts slightly on his chair, then: “Yesterday.”

Angelo nods, looking back at the clipboard, jotting down his answer quickly. “How often, would you say, do you ejaculate in a regular week?”

Hanzo’s heart is thumping quick and hard. He stares at the top of Angelo’s head. The Doctor waits for him to answer, then looks up when it takes too long, brow knitting.

“Mr. Shimada. I know these kinds of questions can be uncomfortable, but for me they are nothing extraordinary, really. Please. I would love to let you go to the practice range ASAP.”

Hanzo balls his hands into slow fists, lowering his gaze to stare at his knees.

“About… five times.”

“Hmm I see.” The blood his thumping in Hanzo’s ears. The Doctor’s voice is without any particular inflection, but still it feels to Hanzo like he is… judging him. “How many sexual partners did you have?”

Hanzo can feel his temper spiking, fingers curling into his pants. He does not answer, scowl becoming fierce and threatening when Angelo tries to prompt him again. The Doctor’s mouth pulls down. He starts to look mildly annoyed with the situation himself.

He taps his pen against the clipboard, the silence stretching between them, and then Hanzo feels like something shifts in the usually kind face.

For a second Angelo looks sly – but it is gone just as soon as it had come, and Hanzo is no longer sure he’s seen it.

The Doctor nods and stands abruptly.

“It is alright. You can tell me later.”

He puts the clipboard back on his desk and walks to the only examination table in his office, rummaging in a little cupboard until he pulls out two thin gloves.

“Do you stimulate your prostate, Mr. Shimada?” he asks without looking at Hanzo. Hanzo, having watched the Doctor’s movements across the room with trepidation, feels his heart skip a beat, then gallop in his chest.

“What?”

“Your prostate,” Angelo repeats patiently. A bit slowly like he is talking to a kid now. He has one glove slipped onto his hand and snaps the rubber with a finality against his wrist that makes Hanzo shudder. “Are you accustomed to stimulating it? With your fingers or a toy, or…”

“No,” Hanzo hisses, throat feeling tight and dry with rage. “I would never-” He chokes on his own self-righteousness and Angelo speaks before he can bring anything more out; calm and collected: “Alright. Please come here and drop your pants, Mr. Shimada. I would like to perform a prostate examination.”

Hanzo stands abruptly, chair toppling to the floor.

“I will not stand this blatant disregard of my pride,” he growls in cold fury, fingers curled into tight fists. “This is -”

“It is up to you, really,” Angelo interrupts evenly, snapping on the second glove. “I will not force you to do anything. But you will also understand that I can not lie to Winston – and you are quite aware of the consequences of your refusal.”

Hanzo stares at him mute; the Doctor looks back with an enigmatic little smile, gloved hands folded in front of him as he waits for Hanzo’s decision.

.o.

“Hm,” the Doctor hums when Hanzo’s pants fall, tangling between his ankles. He stares at the bulge of his fundoshi until Hanzo turns away and puts his hips against the cold edge of the examination table. He feels dazed; like this is some kind of dream. Or nightmare.

He loosens the knot of his underwear and keeps it in his hand when he brings his arms forward, balling a fist around it as he stiffly bends at his hips.

The Doctor does not give him a second of reprieve. Suddenly his hand is between Hanzo’s thighs, cupping his soft cock. Rolling the ball of his hand against his sac and causing Hanzo to stand up onto the balls of his feet, an alarmed sound caught in his throat.

Angelo makes a considering noise. He is close enough that Hanzo can feel his body heat – and then he is suddenly murmuring, right against his ear: “I see. There’s not much you can do with something like this, I suppose.”

There’s a bolt of heat zipping down Hanzo’s spine, and when the ringing in his ears abates, he realizes with horror that he is getting hard against the Doctor’s cool fingers.

“It is functional at least. That’s a good thing, hm?”

The Doctor pats his cock like a small animal, then pulls his hand away. Hanzo is staring at the crinkling paper on the table, mouth hanging open – caught in a stupor while his ears burn.

Moments later, his cheeks get unceremoniously spread, and then there is another beat of silence.

Angelo grunts softly, something between interest and satisfaction, and then Hanzo jerks forward, rattling the table when cold, wet fingers round his sensitive pucker; tight and kept meticulously hairless in those afternoon showers where he nervously touches the peach pink hole and pulls away before he can talk himself into doing it.

“Deep breath,” the Doctor mutters, but even before he has finished he is already pushing in with a single, long finger.

Hanzo knows, somewhere, that this is revenge for his earlier bitchiness, but as he pulls up onto the balls of his feet again, trying to evade the intrusion, he can’t formulate many rational thoughts at all.

His cock is feeling hot and swollen, throbbing as his muscles clench down and try in vain to force the finger out once more.

“Hmm this is unorthodox,” Angelo comments, “but I figure this is a good opportunity to test whether everything really is in working order. I am not sure it is of consequence for your little… ah… for you, but – I like being thorough.”

Hanzo burns. His eyes are wet with tears, thighs shaking as he can’t help but bear down on the finger. He bends his knees, sticks his ass out, lets his head hang low in abject shame at his own display.

He can’t… He can’t believe…

“Your prostate seems swollen,” the Doctor informs him. Hanzo can feel his finger rounding it, too. Slow and leisurely, dragging circles through the wall of his intestine and causing more tears to jump to his eyes from the sharp, delicious stimulation. “Not worrisome, but I would suggest a more regular check-up.”

Hanzo grinds his teeth.

\---

“I would think you would be amenable to it as well?” Angelo inquires when Hanzo does not answer – as per usual.

He has rarely had a patient as willfully obtuse as the elder Shimada brother.

When Hanzo still doesn’t answer, he presses down against the fat swell of his prostate until the man yelps and lifts his hips into it all on his own accord.

Angelo smirks slightly, all while Hanzo is staring at the examination table between his braced elbows in numb, embarrassed horror.

He barely can make the doctor’s next words out over the rushing in his ears.

“It would be a nice reprieve for you, I assume. Having someone touch you for once?” He says it with a little lilt in his voice; like he wants Hanzo to answer, but he doesn’t know what to say. “I suppose I don’t have to ask you about STIs at least. I don’t assume you have had many opportunities to use your… little friend.”

There’s a bit of redness just about visible in the strip of skin between Hanzo’s black hair and the Overwatch issued sweater he has donned, so Angelo grabs the back of the grey fabric and rudely pushes it up just to see how far his flush reaches – and how far Hanzo lets him go.

While he is obviously mortified, he hasn’t put up any resistance yet other than his initial contrariness, and Angelo finds himself wondering just how badly the man needed someone to milk his little disappointment of a cock… or maybe needed someone to very unmistakably show him his place in the food chain.

In any case, while Angelo is a firm believer in gentleness and kindness, there are limits to what he can condone, and Mr. Shimada has reached those a few weeks prior.

When Hanzo does not answer his query – which he hadn’t expected him to – he twists his wrist, pushing the knuckle of his finger rudely against the naked, peach pink rim of his asshole.

“Or have you used this?”

It is… honestly addicting to be so rude, so inconsiderate, and have Mr Shimada not even try to push against him. There is something liberating in the whole experience. He wonders what is going on in Shimada’s mind. What he thinks as the good doctor rudely fingerfucks his ass and forces his micro cock to drool out thick amounts of pre-cum.

Speaking of…

“You will have to clean my floor later, Mr Shimada. Your little friend is making everything _filthy_.”

Hanzo wheezes out a long, strung-out note that makes Angelo smirk.

“Wait a moment.” He pulls away from him with a negligence that excites himself and, watching Hanzo, him as well. His knees are visibly shaking, anus wet and glistening with with lube he used to push into him without warning his patient about the intrusion. Angelo feels… excited. Naughty.

He grabs one of the largest petri dishes that he has and, after a moment of thought, thrusts it into Hanzo’s flaming face.

“Use this.”

Hanzo stares at it. His dark eyes are big and wet. He looks close to crying, and the thought and sight has Angelo’s cock twitching and filling out from mildly interested half-hard into something that way more resembles a ‘raging hard on’. It is… disquieting, to be sure. Like he is standing at the edge of an abyss that he’s only ever vaguely known to be existing.

Slowly, his patient moves. He takes the offered petri dish and, after another moment of just staring at it with dumb confusion, finally moves to hold it underneath the nub of his cock while pressing his face against the examination table and his big bicep, trying to muffle his sob.

Angelo’s cock pulses. He can feel a bit of wetness seep into his underwear. He thoughtlessly cups it and squeezes down while he stares at Hanzo. Finally, he swallows and rasps: “You haven’t answered. Have you used this yet?”

He presses the heel of his hand against Hanzo’s tailbone, long fingers stretching to tap against the wet, barely stretched muscle of his anus.

Still, Hanzo doesn’t answer except for a soft gasp and a whine as he shuffles to spread his legs farther apart.

“Maybe I should get my speculum…” Angelo murmurs thoughtfully as he rudely hooks two fingers this time to push into Hanzo and stretch him on them. 

The man cries out in shock and alarm. He has to pull away from hiding his face so he can get enough air as he suddenly babbles: “No! No, please, I… I haven’t. I haven’t u-used it yet.”

Angelo grins slowly. He feels a little drunk with his rush of power.

“There you go… wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” he croons. Who would have thought that an innocent two fingers were enough to make Hanzo sing?

His insides are hot and squishy, bearing down on him to try and force him back out, and he only pushes in deeper as a reprimand until he can hear Hanzo gurgle.

“Hey!” he snaps. “You’re not holding the dish properly!”

Hanzo whines and rightens his wrist again so the liquid he is catching in it is not dripping down to the floor.

“Can’t even do that, can you? Pretty useless, if you ask me.” Angelo’s heart is thumping wildly. He thinks that _now_, at least, Hanzo will finally start pushing back, but he remains quiet except for his low, groans, his insides no longer trying to force him out but simply squeezing down on him to feel the width of his fingers. Angelo swallows, his dry throat clicking as he continues: “You probably are just as useless sucking cock. You should not be surprised that nobody has wanted to play with you…”

He trails off, hearing Hanzo whine and seeing him angle himself back. He can’t believe this is happening. How just an hour before Hanzo had been this contrary, closed-up man that is now letting Angelo just… push him around and humiliate him.

“Come on. Get that knee up on the table. Let me see how big your cock gets when it is hard.”

He roughly slaps the back of Hanzo’s thigh and watches with fascination as the usually sharply intelligent man has to actively think about how to coordinate all his limbs to follow along with the order.

Hanzo’s cock is as brick red as the man’s face and ears, but has not grown by much. It looks absolutely ridiculous on a man as stocky and muscular as Hanzo, and he tells him as much as he reaches between his thighs and pinches it carefully between thumb and pointer finger.

Hanzo sobs. He sounds almost genuinely upset; if he wasn’t coming right that moment, little dick pumping out a surprisingly large amount of cum into the quickly overflowing dish.

“At least it is in working order,” Angelo rasps as he takes his hand away and wipes his fingers against Hanzo’s ass cheek.

“I think you should come in for another check-up, though… I feel like I should be doing more… examinations.”

Hanzo is hiccuping and barely able to say anything but in the end he rasps: “Y-Yes, Sir.”


	7. Zenyatta/Mondatta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta/Mondatta – accidental voyeurism; wire play – Zenyatta is struggling and restless.

Zenyatta is restless. Being restless comes with understanding oneself as their own person, he understands, but he is not necessarily fond of the feeling either way.

What he wants to do; what he’d _like_ to do, is shut himself down for just a few hours and lets his processes do what they so desperately want to do; rearrange themselves and get rid of everything that has piled up during his waking hours to once more run smoothly, but Mondatta has said that their programs first need to learn to cope with their new form of being, so no shutting down for him for the foreseeable future.

He’s been sitting in his chambers, honestly debating on going against Mondatta’s rule and just doing what he could feel was best for his body’s continued functioning, but something still kept him back from doing so (maybe the knowledge of the gentle flickering of Mondatta’s array which would clearly show his disappointment in his young brother).

There had to be other means – so he stood and started walking. It helped with the restlessness a little, at least; it gave his processes something to focus on other than the need to power down and sort himself out.

When speaking in his morning lectures, Mondatta once had likened them to human addicts. How they go through the same trials and tribulations, and while Zenyatta had felt an immediate (almost programmed) outrage at the comparison, he now feels a lot more… consoled by it. That there are others who feel this way.

Wandering the hallways of the monastery, he finds himself struggling; wondering whether all of this is worth it. Whether he should feel consoled by humans when what he wants to be is not a _human_, but a person all in his own right.

What exactly is his purpose, now that he has these feelings and thoughts and purposefully tortures himself by not shutting down?

Mondatta sees greatness in him; that he has the potential to be strong enough to guide others like them; others who have awakened and find themselves lost.

Zenyatta can’t see it himself.

He wanders the monastery, jealous of all his siblings which are happily shut down right now, not suffering of this infernal restlessness, and finds himself soon enough in the lonely part that Mondatta has chosen to sequester himself in.

Maybe he can ask for guidance. Maybe his dear friend and mentor can take this itching from within and mold it into something more productive somehow.

Mondatta’s rooms, as the ones of all Shambali, are not locked by any doors. There is a thin shawl instead posing as a guardian, but it is see-through and has been bound away to one side anyway.

Even before Zenyatta reaches the opening, his aural sensors pick up on an… oddity.

A sigh, maybe. Or a glitch. He is unsure as his steps that had been filled with a newfound determination start to falter again, though this time not because of the infernal itching beneath his chassis that is threatening to drive his processors insane, but another kind of insecurity that has him carefully placing his feet so he doesn’t make too much sound against the roughly hewn stone floor.

Another sound, this one just as indecipherable as the first. Still, it makes Zenyatta… nervous. A strange feeling that is not necessarily unwelcome.

When he finally peeks around the corner of the doorway, he tells himself he is doing so because he does not want to disturb Master Mondatta in any of his endeavors; he clearly is in midst of a meditation session or somesuch – but the truth of the matter is that Zenyatta is simply curious – and Mondatta _is_ busy, but not with any of the things Zenyatta has imagined.

Mondatta is on the floor on his meditation mat, but he is not sitting in a prim and proper lotus position. His robes are all askew, rucked up his long legs which are gleaming like pearl with their white chassis; impeccable even now even though he has made no conscious effort to keep it as such – as far as Zenyatta is aware.

The robes are opened above his torso, too, and Zenyatta is shocked – _shocked! _– to see he has opened his chassis and exposed all of his delicate machinery, gleaming indecently wet and dark with an obviously fresh coating of oil.

It is… obscene. Zenyatta has never seen another omnic exposed as such before, and he presses a hand against his diaphragm, trying to keep his voicebox quiet as he stares at the lewd picture.

Mondatta’s faceplate with its continually regal expression is tilted towards the ceiling. It is not a foolproof way to not getting seen, of course, but it makes Zenyatta brave enough to creep a little more forward and watch as his mentor gently slides long, pearl white fingers into his innards and weaves delicate little cables around each digit.

He bodily jerks, and there it is again; the soft sighing sound, a little frayed and glitched around the edges, and with a growing sense of fascination Zenyatta realizes that Mondatta is… pleasuring himself.

Heat is building within his own body, rising in soft, steamy clouds off of his chassis as he curls his fingers harder against his diaphragm to keep his own soft crackling from being picked up by Mondatta’s sensors as he watches in fascination.

Forgotten is his restlessness and unhappiness in favor of watching as Mondatta twitches his fingers and _tugs_ at a tiny cable and Zenyatta can feel the delicious ache of it within his own body; enough to make a little panel against Zenyatta’s pelvic all but pop off, receding shamelessly to reveal the slick little valve underneath.

He tries to make out whether Mondatta has one too; a little silicone lined opening that has sweet little nodes that are onlining all at once all of a sudden and making him feel swollen and oversensitive without anything having happened.

He can’t make out anything; Mondatta’s robe is still bound around his cinched waist causes the fabric to bunch up all around the middle where it hides the area between his long, thin thighs.

It does not matter. Zenyatta’s attention is drawn back to Mondatta’s hand in his own… in his own chassis. He drags it out, pinching one of the thicker cables between two digits, and Zenyatta feels all fuzzy with static as he sees the oil gleaming on the white chassis.

He reaches down on himself, hand carefully cupping his little valve, feeling the squishy, silky texture of it as he watches Mondatta jerk as if a bolt of electricity has shot through him, his voicebox producing a sound out of this world that makes synthetic slick drip thick and slimy into Zenyatta’s palm.

As he fits two long, slender fingers slowly into the little opening to press against a few of the nodes, Mondatta is starting to use his other hand as well; reaching up inside his torso and into the darkness beneath the plates that protect the main pump of their models.

It looks so… so obscene, so… _lewd_. But Zenyatta is fascinated, feeling as calm as he hasn’t since waking up to his new understanding of himself. Suddenly, his restlessness is no longer unbearable. He thinks he can work with it. Make something more… productive out of these lonely, lonely nights.


	8. Sigma/Zenyatta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigma/Zenyatta – human!Zenyatta; overstimulation; aftercare – Zenyatta helps Sigma to calm down.

There’s a ring of ever-moving orbs around Zenyatta’s neck and they are as mesmerizing to Siebren as they would be to a toddler. At least – they usually are.

As Zenyatta leans over him, one of the intricate golden orbs levitating half an inch off his palm, Sigma has no patience to gaze at their wonderful perpetual rotations.

“Enough!” he hisses, voice swinging with a strange cadence. He sounds like a different man, his face pulled into a grimace that makes him look like a caricature of himself. “Enough!”

Zenyatta pauses, then tilts his head, looking at him struggle against his own defiance of gravity as he is suspended in mid-air. There is a mess in Sigma’s lap from which his cock is standing up straight into the air, flushed the same angry shade of red as Sigma’s throat. Previous loads have made his grey pubes sticky, the splatters reaching up past his belly button.

Zenyatta waits, watching him calmly with a little smile on his face.

“Very well,” he says and lowers his hand again, the orb levitating back into line around his neck, endlessly moving about while Sigma squirms and struggles as if he weren’t the one holding himself afloat.

Chances are good that he’s forgot he is the one incarcerating himself.

“I’ve had… I’ve had…” Sigma starts, but the angry energy from before is fading as fast as it has appeared. His slate grey eyes are wandering aimlessly about the room. There are hectic points of color on his high cheekbones from his earlier exertions. His body is still primed and ready, even though he seems to be distracted for the moment from the need.

“Enough?” Zenyatta supplies gently. He reaches out and cards fingers through Sigma’s thinning hair, smiling at him wide until his eyes squint when Sigma’s slightly uncoordinated gaze lands on him.

Siebren waits, mouth working without a sound coming out, then lifts his head and stares down his body; at the wide, slightly soft chest with his nipples peaked and raw looking; down his heaving belly which has that nice soft curve to it that Zenyatta likes to rest his head on and listen to the gurgling of Siebren’s digestive tract.

“No…” he says, a lot calmer now, a bit bewildered sounding. He licks his lips, then helplessly curls his hips up, making his brick red cock wag like a dog’s tail. “I want…”

His eyes slide away and he looks around, only marginally pausing on Zenyatta’s friendly face every now and then.

“What’s that melody?” he asks distractedly and a bit agitated. Zenyatta hums and nods. It usually comes down to this.

He snaps his finger and Siebren’s eyes immediately snap to him while Zenyatta’s orbs simultaneously lift and start to gently chime.

“This melody?” he asks and plucks one of the orbs out of the ring which smoothly closes.

“No…” Sigma starts, watching as Zenyatta flattens his hand, the orb gently floating above his palm and starting a gentle buzzing. “Yes,” he immediately changes his mind, mesmerized, mouth soft and open and eyes staring transfixed.

When Zenyatta lowers his hand, the buzzing orb coming closer to his painfully erect cock, Sigma lifts his hips helpfully towards it, the tip of his tongue poking out against his bottom lip as he focuses on the soft chiming of the orbs and the imminent feeling of the smooth, vibrating surface against his pulsing cock.

He howls even before the warm metal touches the brick red tip, the thrum over the air already enough to remind him that he’s been coaxed into coming multiple times already and actually his cock is _hurting_ and he just _can’t_, there is no way he can come _again_…!

Zenyatta is smiling at him, calm and gentle but as unrelenting as steel.

When Sigma starts begging him to have mercy, not to make him come again, there is no way he’ll be able to, he surely will have to perish- Zenyatta leans over him and presses his smooth forehead against the old man’s while pressing the orb against the tip of his cock, just a single finger keeping it nice and secure against his willing victim.

Sigma sobs, straining against invisible bonds that are of his own making – and against the thick red rope that Zenyatta has looped around his arms, keeping them tied beneath him.

“You can,” Zenyatta assures him with a smile, dark eyes looking feline as he presses soft mouthed kisses against Siebren’s open, gasping mouth and leisurely lets the vibrating orb roll up and down the blood hot cock.

“The… the melody,” Sigma whines, almost getting distracted again, and Zenyatta shifts, curling one arm around Sigma’s impossibly wide shoulders and letting the gently moving ring of orbs slide over to rotate about the other man’s neck, the chimes directly against his ears.

When he calms down again, looking absolutely peaceful as his hips begin a gently fucking motion, Zenyatta slides farther down his body, free hand sliding through the slowly drying mess on Sigma’s soft belly.

He suckles the tip of his cock into his mouth without warning and preamble. Sigma groans softly; he doesn’t seem to have anything more strenuous in himself, just coasting on the pain/pleasure that he is receiving as Zenyatta suckles more of his cock into the warm, silky space of his mouth, all the while pressing the humming orm now against the base of Sigma’s cock where it is simultaneously also pressing against his poor, dry balls.

His cock is feverishly hot against Zenyatta’s tongue; it feels like tending to an infected wound, and he can’t help but slightly smile around the old cock because he likes that thought a whole lot.

When Sigma comes, he sobs like a babe; soft and exhausted and out of it as barely a squirt of cum dribbles across Zenyatta’s tongue while the man is shaking through his last orgasm of the night.

He is still floating, though; it comes even more easy to him than breathing, it seems.

Zenyatta’s orbs are still chiming, calm and out of any discernible rhythm; keeping Siebren on his toes as he listens and gets gentled down into lowering himself onto a mat on the floor by a man less than half his age.

Zenyatta shifts until Siebren’s head is pillowed on his thighs; nice and plump as nothing on the rest of his body really is, his fingers carding slowly through the old man’s thin hair.

Siebren’s eyes are closed, his face soft and slack; there is nothing of the angry man from before to be seen, just exhausted satisfaction as he coasts on the pulsing, aching remnants of his orgasm.

Eventually, he blinks his eyes open. They look disoriented but clear. Calm. The color of the sky after a storm.

Zenyatta curls over him, smiling broad once more until his eyes squint, his dry palms framing the old man’s cheeks.

“Welcome back.”

Sigma smiles slowly back; shy and crooked but genuine. He is still floating, but not in the way he was before. He feels simultaneously light as a feather and heavy as a rock.

Zenyatta slowly strokes his shoulders, his chest, his neck; whatever he can reach while he lets his submissive calm down.

And later, when Sigma is nice and sleepy, he will clean him up and tuck him in.


	9. Soldier76/Bois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack/Bois (mostly Torbjörn) – gangbang; sloppy whore Jack – There were traditions in SEP and Jack really wants them back after recall.

Jack has always had a type, and it hasn’t changed since the SEP days.

When McCree comes swaggering back into base after recall, tall and broad with thick hair covering his arms and reeking of smoke and sweat, Tracer is already grinning at the old Soldier and obnoxiously nudging him in the side with her elbow.

He pretends like he doesn’t notice it until her nudging and ‘oooOOOoooh!’ gets annoying enough that he shoots her a glare, though it is rendered all but ineffective through the hot flush on his cheeks.

Things don’t get easier for him. Reinhardt comes back; Torbjörn comes back; _Gabriel_ comes back, and he finds himself sitting in his rooms, clenching his hands between his thighs, trying to breathe through the need to come crawling to them and beg for cock.

This is a new start, after all. He shouldn’t show himself like this in front of the other new recruits, even though he can _feel_ their gazes on him. He knows they still remember those old days when he’s prowled from room to room, hole progressively more sloppy with every new cock reaming him, looking for yet more cocks to stuff him full and stop the infernal itching beneath his skin.

He wonders whether they are no longer interested in him now that he’s no longer blond and pretty; or maybe they are too old to want to fuck until their dicks are raw. Or maybe they think now that SEP has been over for so long, Jack is no longer interested in getting fucked until his legs are wobbly and useless?

Oh but he is. But he _is_. Enough so that it is interfering with work, even; making him zone out during mission briefings in favor of staring at one of those big, meaty, hairy men and wonder whether the way they fuck has changed over all these years.

When he’s alone in bed at night, hand curled around his angry hot dick, squeezing and coming up with increasingly hair brained schemes to get one of them to bend him over and mount him, he doesn’t think that he’ll ever get back what he’s had during SEP. When he’s been close to tears more often than not because the itch beneath his skin was driving him insane. When getting railed on the regular has been something mandated by medical.

The itching is no longer driving him up a wall (except it is). He’s learned to live with it (or not).

When it finally happens, he is not even angling for it; not consciously at least. He is in Torbjörn’s new workshop to try and see how far he’s come with the repairs on his pulse rifle, and not to bend over the immaculately clean and organized workbench to get his belt opened and bulge palmed through his pants by one big hand, but… that is what happens.

An electric shudder runs down his spine, ending in his tailbone and making him arch his ass to Torbjörns amusement.

“Ah. I been wonderin’ bout that. Seems like you’re still a slut.”

Jack stares at the dark wood making up the workbench, eyes wide and mouth slightly gaping as his head reels with the sudden change in atmosphere. He’s not even been expecting…

“Hmm… wait a second. I’ll call the boys.”

The boys. He calls the boys. Jack lifts a hand and presses it to his mouth to keep in the needy whine that wants to escape. He shuffles his booted feet farther apart, hole clenching and suddenly tingling with all kinds of nerves that haven’t had a good proper dicking in… too long… way too long.

When Torbjörn’s hand comes back around after tapping out some kind of message, he reaches down hectically and wants to help him pop open that little button and drag down that little zipper, but all he gets for his trouble is a very painful slap on the wrist by Torbjörn’s mechanical arm.

“What kinda nasty habits you been pickin’ up?” he grouses. “Leave ya alone for a couple a’ years and ya’re already forgotten howta behave?”

Jack’s mouth drops open, eyes going heavy lidded as he slowly shakes his head.

“N...No, Sir…”

Torbjörn huffs. “Didn’t think so,” he murmurs but still his claw is curling around the wrist of the offending hand and cinches down like a pair of manacles. His arm is guided back up to the workbench and then there is the hiss of hydraulics as Torbjörn gets rid of it and lets the weight of his mechanical arm keep Jack pinned.

He doesn’t need two hands anyway.

The pants are down to mid-thigh within moments, and there’s some oil on Torbjörn’s thick, agile fingers that Jack is pretty sure shouldn’t be used inside a human, but his men have yet to hurt him. They are surprisingly thoughtful despite how excited they get.

Through the rushing in his ears he can hear the door swoosh a few times and footsteps approaching.

McCree has never been a member of the original… gang… but he fits himself in like it is perfectly normal to see the old commander bend over and offering his cunt up for the taking.

He chuckles and pats Jack’s rump like he’s an especially well-behaved gelding, and proceeds to offer the other participants a smoke.

Reinhardt and Torbjörn decline. Gabriel takes it but just because he is amused.

Torbjörn is pulling down against his rim with two thickly oiled fingers and shows the rest of them Jack’s hot, squishy insides, and he whines and hides his face in the crook of the arm that’s not pinned down but also doesn’t complain about it.

McCree even steps closer to have a look, ashing off just to the side of Jack’s flank. He wishes he had done so right on his ass. Use him as an ashtray. Assert his dominance as a young, virile stud over the old whore.

Jack bites into his jacket and holds on tight, his insides trembling in mindless anticipation. Torbjörn has found him, so it is his right to have him first – it’s a well-established rule from decades ago, and there’s no complaining to be heard as the engineer pulls a footstool closer to step on and fill Jack’s hungry insides with a nice, fat dick.

The engineer leans over him, his hairy belly scratching against the small of Jack’s back, and his eyes roll up into his head. He loves feeling his weight. The way his hairy balls drag against his taint as he fucks in deep. He loves the big, strong hand on his hip, clamping down hard enough to bruise as he is getting fucked; slow at first and then steadily picking up the pace.

He loves how they have a train of ever changing cocks going; one pumps him full with a hot load and the other is already there, raring to go. 

McCree complaints about the state of his hole; gaping and sloppy; a fucked-out mess that he is sure won’t find any traction on his cock – right up to the moment that Gabriel tells him to shut the fuck up and try it.

Jack loves all of it. He has no input on the matter. He’s just a couple convenient, hot holes that these men rule over for the foreseeable future, and he is almost delirious with how much he needed this.


	10. Harry/Eggsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry/Eggsy – camboy!Eggsy; voyeurism/exhibitionism; feminization – Eggsy has a hobby. He thought he had kept it a secret. Harry comes home early.

“Harry… I dunno ‘bout this.”

Harry hums softly as a sign that he is listening, but he is not looking up from the camcorder he is currently playing with while lounging on an armchair. He has shucked off his jacket and shiny bespoke shoes, but is still wearing his white, immaculately ironed dress shirt and pants that make his already long legs look even longer. Distractingly so.

He is also still wearing his suspenders which Eggsy always wants to grab and snap against that firm torso underneath but couldn’t make himself do so now.

Harry’s come home early – which is the reason for his state of mostly-dress – and Eggsy really just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this embarrassed.

He vaguely remembers his mom stepping in on him during a very similar situation, but he can’t remember the particulars of that special episode anymore; he has studiously shoved that episode under lock and key.

Seeing Harry sitting there now, idly going through Eggsy’s past videos and watching the lewd shit his boy gets up to when he doesn’t have to work to save the world is… horrifying, to be honest.

“I don’t think the guys would wanna… see this,” he says again, trying his best, a whine to his voice as he stares at the panties and bra laid out next to him on the bed.

“Curious,” Harry says without taking his eyes off of whatever he is seeing on the small screen. Eggsy can see the bright rectangle reflecting on Harry’s glasses, but he does not know what exactly he is staring at. Probably Eggsy’s asshole spread for the camera. He’s done that one a lot. Gotten onto the bed that he shares with his older lover and spread his ass with both hands for the camera.

People go nuts for that when he uploads it on various sites and he likes the feeling of the cool air brushing against his intimate parts and knowing that others will intently stare at his hole. 

That there are people in the world that know how Eggsy’s cunt looks better than he does himself.

_Harry_ staring at him displaying himself like this… is horrifying.

“Curious,” Harry says again, shocking Eggsy out of his thoughts as he sits on the edge of the bed in just his shorts, wringing his hands. “You have already had the garments laid out, so you must have planned on donning them, yes?”

Eggsy groans softly, clenching his hands between his knees.

“Yes,” he whispers meekly. There is no use in denying it now. Eggsy is brash on a regular, but something about Harry’s calmness always has him tuck his tail and roll on his back. Harry is… effortlessly dominant, and Eggsy regularly gets stupidly hot for it. Like now; even though he is burning with shame that makes the freckles along his shoulders stand out more.

“Then, please. I wouldn’t want your audience to have to wait for tonight’s video.”

“W...Wha?”

Finally, Harry stops staring at the camcorder and instead glances up at Eggsy, face still depicting polite, calm interest; like he is discussing yesterday’s news over a nice cup of tea instead of prompting his boy to put on nice lingerie and put on a show for other people to watch.

“Did you think I didn’t know about your little hobby?” he asks gently. “You know we performed very thorough background checks on every Kingsman candidate.”

Eggsy’s mouth falls open, then closes again with a little snap without him having uttered a word. He opens it again and only a small squeak comes out as sudden heat floods him, and Harry, obviously knowing what is going through Eggsy’s head, slowly grins, eyelids lowering; looking predatory and aroused for the first time since suddenly stepping into the room while Eggsy got ready to film.

“Yes. Merlin saw as well.”

Eggsy whimpers. He couldn’t go back tomorrow. He couldn’t possibly step a goddamn foot in the HQ knowing that Harry knew, and that Merlin _also knew_. Had seen Eggsy fuck himself on a million toys and stuff his hole with all kinds of things it shouldn’t be stuffed.

Had seen his goddamn balls swinging between his thighs as he put a vibe up his ass that could administer little electric shocks.

He feels faint, and a bit nauseous with humiliation while Harry watches him with a quite frankly creepy grin spreading his lips.

“He liked it. As did I,” he says casually and starts to fiddle with the camera, attention sliding back towards it. “Now hophop… Put your underwear on. You have a schedule, yes? I wouldn’t want to be the reason for others to miss out on their afternoon leisure activities.”

Eggsy hesitates but then Harry lets one hand fall into his lap and dances long fingers across a bulge that Eggsy hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Come now, pretty lass,” Harry says, voice somewhere between brisk and gentle. “Don’t let them wait.”

Eggsy finally moves, though he does so as if in trance.

He shucks his shorts, showing off his naked cock to Harry who hums softly, clearly happy with the sight. He’s already half-hard and that makes it difficult to wrangle his dick into the frilly pink panties.

He’s never really put something like them on and is frustrated by how delicate they feel; like his fingers are too blunt and rough and he’ll be ripping them apart any second with his thickly muscled thighs; but they don’t rip.

His cock is an obscene bulge in the front which he instinctively tries to hide with both hands until Harry clicks his tongue in reprimand and gently reminds him that he still needs to don the bra that is laid out on the bed.

The thing is way too small; he’s not thought he would need any particular size as he’s a bloke without tits, but the material is now clinging so desperately to him that it actually looks like he has way more than he actually sports.

The bra is making him have a _cleavage_, and he is staring at it in mortified intrigue.

“You look wonderful, Eggsy.” Eggsy looks up sharply. He had forgotten about Harry for just a few minutes. Harry had spoken so gentle, so loving that Eggsy can feel himself flushing from head to toe in a mixture of embarrassment and neediness. He’s always been a slut for praise, and of course Harry knows about it.

He sits there, not proper and prim, but lounging backwards, legs lazily spread and a camera pointed on Eggsy, the little blinking red light alerting him to the fact that he is being filmed. Has been filmed for the past however long minutes.

He awkwardly stands there, one arm coming up to cross across his chest, but only managing to push his pecs up farther, which makes him quickly lower it once more, head turned to the side.

He’s brash and loud usually, but now he is as meek as a kitten.

“Turn for the camera, sweetheart,” Harry prompts softly, and Eggsy… does.

On Harry’s command he turns and lifts his arms over his head, showing off the golden patches of hair beneath them; he bends at his waist and dutifully says into the camera: “Thank you for my present, daddy.”

He can feel himself slipping into a headspace fast, and by the time Harry coaxes him to lean over the side of the bed, he has forgotten all about his shame and is only painfully hot and needy to show off for his daddy; eagerly hooking his fingers into the side of the panties and pulling them to the side to show off his hole.

There’s a soft click, and when he turns his head, Harry has stood up and put the camcorder on a tripod. He is smiling and calm, but as he walks towards Eggsy, he is shoving an erection like a baseball bat ahead of himself.

Eggsy stares at it, his world zeroing in Harry and him and Harry’s cock that he wants to drag through the slit of his perfectly pressed slacks and beg to be stuffed with.

Outside of the periphery of his attention, the camcorder is dutifully recording.


	11. McCree/Hanzo/Torbjörn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree/Hanzo/Torbjörn – continuation of B22F6 – sloppy Hanzo; DP (in a way); objectification; slut shaming – McCree comes home to find Moira’s note against his door. He decides that he should try and make the best out of the situation.

_Dear Mr McCree. Do not be alarmed about your empty abode, we have something of yours. It wandered into Mr Rutledge’s arms and was very adamant about staying for a while. We will be sure to sent your property back to you once Mr Rutledge has made sure to properly grease it as we would not wish to give it back worse for wear._

_If you do not wish further incidents, I would suggest investing in a leash. However, Mr Rutledge does not seem averse to taking care of it every once in a while._

_Sincerely, Dr. Moira O’Deorain (an associate of your next door neighbor’s)_

Jesse stares at the note on his door, mouth slightly agape. He unlocks it and sticks his head in, calling for Hanzo – but no response is being given. He steps back out, staring at the note some more, then towards the door of their neighbors.

He’s never paid them too much attention; they are quiet for the most part which suits him just well because he is sure Hanzo would have bitched at him about it if they weren’t.

He sneaks closer and puts his ear against the wood. There’s silence for a moment, then he hears a thump and a deep, hoarse groan which he only knows too well. 

He huffs, and pulls back, unsure whether he is annoyed or amused. He’s spent a long day at work and has been looking forward to sinking balls deep in his wife’s cunt while watching something brainless on TV, and having her unavailable now because she’s been bored and looking for someone else’s cock is vexing.

He’s also seen Mr Rutledge in passing every now and then, and he can only imagine what kind of dick a man his size has. While Jesse thoughtfully stares at his neighbor’s door, listening to another thump and a hoarse, delirious groan of _his_ Hanzo, he comes to a conclusion and drags out his phone.

“Hey… yeah. How’re the repairs goin’?... Listen, I’d have some payment for ya if you wanted t’ come over. … Yeah, you ask your wife. I’ll be waitin’.”

.o.

When Hanzo stumbles into Jesse’s humble abode, he looks quite literally fucked up. His make-up is smeared; the mascara no longer sharp, precise lines around his dark eyes but smudged horribly, just like the bit of lip gloss that he must have dabbed on, now smeared against one cheek.

The corners of his mouth look raw, and his hair is mussed, and Jesse can perfectly imagine Mr Rutledge’s fat sausage fingers digging ruthlessly into Hanzo’s black hair so he can use him like a cocksleeve.

One sleeve of his little dress is ripped and dragged down his arm enough to expose one of his tits. There’s the blunt imprint of teeth around the pudgy areola. It looks like a horse has bit him, and with how deep the indents are, Jesse is sure that Hanzo’s tit will be blooming in the prettiest colors come morning.

His whole get-up is not made any more appealing by the fact that his face _falls _when he sees that Jesse is not alone. His dark eyes go wide as he stares at Jesse’s trusted mechanic sitting on one of their armchairs while his wife is in the small kitchenette putting some sandwiches together.

She smiles at Hanzo, her long, blond hair braided into two thick strands which are hanging behind her shoulder blades.

“Welcome back,” she says warmly like she isn’t a perfect stranger to Hanzo in his own home. She looks him up and down and her eyes grow a bit heavy, her smile spreading into something more lazy and predatory, but she doesn’t say more.

Hanzo looks back to Jesse, clearly confused, his hands moving to brush the front of his skirt down but it won’t even reach to his knees.

“Saw your message,” Jesse drawls after wriggling his fingers at Hanzo in greeting, not getting up from his sloppy lounge on the couch. The short, stocky man is quiet while he looks Hanzo over, one thick fingered hand slowly stroking a long, blond beard.

When Hanzo just stares at Jesse in quiet confusion, he digs around his breast pocket and fishes out a note.

“Well… not your message, but might as well,” he elaborates and brandishes it in the air but doesn’t give it to Hanzo when he reaches for it. “Told me about you houndin’ for cock,” he says candidly and Hanzo flushes a hot red, eyes flicking to the two people in the room, quietly horrified – and turned on. Neither of them looks particularly perturbed.

“An’ I thought to myself,” Jesse elaborates as he tucks the note back into his breast pocket and begins to open his heavy belt, “That I deserve better ‘n my whore of a wife’s sloppy, used-up hole after a long day of puttin’ food on our table. Thought to myself ‘why, Jesse, Hanzo should be workin’ too! He’s just out there havin’ fun, gettin’ his cunt stretched on strangers’ dicks!”

Hanzo is not making a sound, just quietly gaping at his husband as he fishes around the opened fly of his jeans and starts to pull his cock out, obviously unashamed. Hanzo’s fingers are slowly curling into the front of his skirt, dragging it up some and showing bruises lazily blooming on his thick, muscular thighs.

He’s really been put through the wringer by their neighbor, and Jesse can’t say that he doesn’t like the sight of it.

He nods towards the stocky man on the armchair. He’s wearing a shirt with its sleeves ripped off and Hanzo’s knees are going weak at the thickly muscled arms he’s showing off.

“Torbjörn here is mighty generous. Fixin’ up my car and willin’ to make it a bit more affordable if I pay him via use of my wife’s sloppy ass.” He smiles slowly at Hanzo. “Ingrid’s his lady and really wanted t’ be here when we double team ya.”

Hanzo stares, frozen in place, feeling the bite on his chest throb harder as his cock starts to push insistently against the fabric of his skirt even though he’d been so _sure_ he would not be able to get it up again any time soon.

Torbjörn shifts and pushes himself off the armchair. He’s so _short_; much more so than even Hanzo, but Hanzo has no illusion that this man would be able to bench press him with one arm if he so desired to. His face – what can be seen beneath his long, thick beard – looks hard and single minded.

“Well then!” He claps into his big hands and makes not only Hanzo but also Jesse jump mildly. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Nobody is asking Hanzo if he is okay with it. They have presented him with the facts of what is going to happen, and Hanzo is expected to obey.

He does.

He comes closer and kneels on the ground; leaning himself across his husband’s lap so he is not too high up for the short, stocky man who flips his skirt up and curses softly at the sight of Hanzo’s ruined hole.

“Gotta double-team that indeed. Don’t think I’d be able to feel anything,” he grouses but Hanzo has the feeling that he’s not really angry.

Ingrid is shuffling closer to have a better look, her face pink with excitement but still somehow managing to look polite; like she’s at a dinner party and not watching her husband fucking someone else.

Despite his complaints, Torbjörn fits his cock into Hanzo, and he’s not sure how the man feels about it, but he sure as hell can feel it rubbing against his swollen, puffy insides.

Jesse’s cock is dragging against Hanzo’s cheek but he seems more interested in trying to watch his mechanic fucking his wife than fitting his dick into Hanzo’s used mouth so Hanzo just groans and inhales against the base while his cheeks get spread by Torbjörn’s big hands and he stuffs him with a surprisingly long, thick cock.

And then Torbjörn grunts something, sounding annoyed – and Jesse reaches for Hanzo’s ass, hooking two fingers along the other man’s cock with worrying ease… and Hanzo can only see dots dancing in his vision.


End file.
